


Who is Right, and Who is Wrong?

by Artist_in_Space



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angry Aziraphale (Good Omens), Angst, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Pre-Armageddon, Pre-Canon, The Arrangement (Good Omens), before everything turns into a rubble and pile of goo, he can influence but Aziraphale knows dang it, he just wants to hang out with you Crowley, the arrangement has certain rules and one of them is to not cross some lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 11:07:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20674361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artist_in_Space/pseuds/Artist_in_Space
Summary: There are times when Crowley realizes that he's quite different, that he's 'too inquisitive' and 'too doubtful'. Those were the reasons why he had Fallen, anyway. It's just that he expects that Aziraphale, his friend- clever and kind- would have answers as to why everything is going to happen as it is.(Set one year just before the delivery of the Antichrist, and Crowley learns of the due date. He lashes out to Aziraphale, forgetting that they have certain grounds in their Agreement. )An excerpt:“Heaven and Hell would fight and they wouldn’t care—Earth would be their battlefield and they won’t give a damn. They wouldn’t care about music, or art, or the trees, the skies, the mountains,” he growled the last words. “Food and books. They wouldn’t care about your bloody-fucking-bookshop--!”“That’s enough, Crowley!”He stopped and looked at the angel, who looked distraught; he was red in the face as well.“You’re going—going too far,” Aziraphale stuttered, and his voice trembled. He had fear plaintively written on his face. “You’re going too far.”





	Who is Right, and Who is Wrong?

**Author's Note:**

> This started out from "You go too fast for me, Crowley" having a double meaning: that Crowley is ready to leave Hell for Aziraphale and Aziraphale can't do it yet, and that Crowley is literally so intelligent- not in the way that Aziraphale is clever, but in a way that he sees the world for what he is and says it so. Then this became that and oof, this is the product.
> 
> As always, thanks Ellie for being the bomb :D

Part One

Crowley knew from the start that he was quite different from his lots—by his lots, he meant when he was both in Heaven and now in Hell. He was too _different. _He wasn’t purely good (he was a bit of a prankster in Heaven, and there was also that matter of asking _too _many questions, he definitely crossed a line somewhere) and he wasn’t tainted bad (this was a bit harder for him to admit, because he was _great _at being bad, you see, he was good at making bad things happen… just not blatantly).

He was an advocate for free choice. He made those choices that led him to Fall and he made those choices to bring forth evil to the world via nuisance than direct intervention. If that was a problem for Hell—that their honest-to-badness _worst _and terrifyingly best agent would rather hack a telecommunications company than say, tempt a person to cheat on their partner, then it was their problem. They had the upper hand when he was on Earth because he was great at making people sin.

It was also due to the same treatment he gave to all where he had met, befriended, and relied on an _angel _of all things, and that angel was Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was… he was _different _too. That was what Crowley noticed even on their first meeting on the Eden Wall, on the South end, just after Adam and Eve set out to explore the world. He wasn’t the same as other angels—or, he had guessed, any celestial being—because he was so _kind _yet impulsively _good _but also kind of a numb nut. He was also a bit of a jerk, if Crowley was being honest (and that was just sometimes… or most of the time. It depends on when and where you’re asking) the angel had the knack to find Crowley’s weakest spots or his greatest ire.

He would not forget when their Agreement commenced—Aziraphale had tutted at him to try and make a miracle and _don’t make a fuss, Crowley, we agreed on this, _and he had fired back with _oh yeah, let me see you make a bad deed, Angel. _He was in shock when the angel didn’t so much bat an eye before making someone trip on their toga and landed on the ground, and heard a few snickering children. The target huffed and cursed the kids, but of course in this way, the kids were innocent because laughing was an involuntary action for most people and cursing others was definitely a sin. Especially in the name of the Lord; Aziraphale was scandalized, and Crowley was clapping in glee. It was a fantastic Agreement.

Although for all the things he loved about the angel, there was this one thing that always irked him: his incessant way to trust Heaven.

He couldn’t remember much from his time in Heaven—falling would do that for you, which might be a great thing for them because he didn’t really know what he would’ve felt if he still remembered it. However, he had a feeling that he might’ve resented it far even greater from Aziraphale’s clipped and rehearsed remarks about the place; if there was anything that one should get right with Aziraphale, is that he loved to talk about matters, even with those he doesn’t know much about. So, for the other to give short responses and _really my dear boy you don’t need to know _and _oh like always, corporate, office-like, _it was a big red flag for a no-go zone for pleasant conversations.

Thus, usually, it starts as a ‘poking the slumbering bear’ kind of thing.

“Ineffable? Come on, Aziraphale. We’re not going through that discussion again! ‘Ineffable’ plan is bull—“

“Crowley.” Aziraphale murmured as he threw a piece of bread to the lake. The ducks that were on the other side of the lake waddled and swam fast towards their end—they always did when he and Aziraphale appeared on their personal bench. Also, it happened because animals tend to follow Aziraphale for some reason (because he was an angel, perhaps). “Mind your words.”

He scoffed. “It’s almost six thousand years, Aziraphale. Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on the possibility that God has a plan for every single one of us don’t you?”

“If I choose to believe it, then it is my choice to do so.”

“That’s what irks me! In that way, you’re saying that it was ineffable that you’d—you’d _select _believing in Her and you’re also saying that what _I’m _saying is like, what, written on a bloody transcript and She’s updating it now and then?”

“Probably for grammar,” Aziraphale said instead of answering Crowley’s question. It _should _irritate him, but the diversion only made him snort. “I do believe it changes so often. God might need to be updated once in a while. I also believe she wants to change the lingo. We’d never know—maybe She realized _‘Banbury Story’_ wasn’t apt for these times and instead opted for ‘rambling’.”

“Outdated lingo?” Crowley waved to his direction. “She must’ve stuck you in the last century or so.”

The angel spluttered. “_H-Hey-!”_

He rolled his eyes; there were times when he wondered if the angel was being terribly obtuse or cleverly tricking him, and today seemed more of the latter. “Pip, pip, jolly good, tally ho, my good laddie!” Crowley said in a mangled version of what he deemed to be Aziraphale’s accent. “May I fancy some tea?” He smirked, relaxing when Aziraphale only rolled his eyes. “Angel. You _know _your language is outdated. Don’t even try to convince me that you don’t know because you _do.”_

Aziraphale hummed. Crowley decided to bring the conversation back on track.

“But still! You can’t make me believe that _She _has this plan and all She does is tease us about it and say ‘oh it’s predestined’; then why give humans free will?” He asked, raising his hands. “Why put us on this planet?” He side-eyed the angel. “Why make _us_ friends?”

Normally the angel would retort with a, _we’re not friends, oh dear, _retort. Today was the same.

“Not necessarily. Extremely good acquaintances, comes with the job, you disparage me, I thwart you.” He tilted his head and threw another piece of bread. With that proper-tone he usually adopted for these conversations, he followed, “Balance is attained, no matter how unconventional. Sometimes that’s just how it works.”

Crowley blew air out of his nose and rolled his eyes. “We should try tipping the scale sometime. World doesn’t need more ducks.”

Aziraphale let out a surprised laugh, which startled a passerby. “Oh, bother, _Crowley! _Not in front of the ducks!”

Despite their differences, they always found middle ground. He’d always find middle ground with Aziraphale, who was far more receptive than other beings he’d ever interacted; he was pretty sure that if the angel would be thoroughly angry with him, he’d be definitely smote. He was a Principality after all, former Guardian of the Eastern Gate. However, usually the angel listened to him, even in his drunkest ramblings.

Though, to be fair, they were both sloshed by that time and it was equal on both sides.

But today, he knew that _the _particular red flag was being presented onto his face and he was ignoring it. Deliberately. In his defense, he was—was lost, was angry, miffed, afraid, name all emotion except content. He wanted answers to his questions. He wanted to understand.

Hell had just contacted him and told him to _prepare for the times ahead of you; one of the biggest steps in our victory shall commence._

In a year or so, he could grasp it, he could _feel it; _there was something that may change their lives. It was coming. Now, he had to make the angel _understand._

“But if God wanted us to protect humanity then why would they want a_ war, _Angel, think about it!” They were now walking across a different park this time. He kicked a pebble and watch it hit a lamp post. “Push and _push _for this bloody Armageddon and we don’t even know _when! _They crave for the final fight!”

“I wouldn’t say _crave,” _Aziraphale murmured, fiddling with his coat buttons. “I do believe they would cancel the war if they learn how Earth is worth saving, or if your side’s lot was in a bit of an advantage. They just want to win. And…we will win, you hear me. Good triumphs over evil and all of that. But yes—I don’t think, personally, that they’d advocate for the war.”

“Oh yeah, _yeah,” _Crowley shook his head. “—didn’t you just tell me about their ‘plans’ to regroup all angels for the debriefing? You’re going to attend that meeting in a month!”

“Well yes,” Aziraphale nodded, “—and it is because it matters to Heaven if the enemies are weakened… always has been. An advantage is what Heaven wants to have.”

“Just like the Bloody Holy War.” Crowley sneered. “Would rather make angels _fall _than make them understand what they’re coming from.”

“Crowley!”

“They wouldn’t cancel the Armageddon and you know that! They’d _celebrate _if Hell suffers, because the ‘evil’ side has been ‘thwarted’. They’d attribute _all _of their actions to the name of God and you know where I’ve heard that? Bloody-fucking-_Dark Ages, _Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale was frowning at him now. Crowley could feel himself get more agitated by the minute. “First, you know that was a mistake of the _humans, _we are _celestial beings, _Crowley, please—“

The demon whirled and walked towards Aziraphale, and leaned over to his face, poking him on the chest. The angel’s eyes were wide, but not afraid. “No, you don’t get to do that _Crowley dear bullshit _because that’s what it is! Armageddon is just one big bang to destroy the world and they don’t care, Aziraphale, Hell doesn’t care, Heaven doesn’t care, God _Herself _doesn’t care—“

He turned around and he knew that he was letting out demonic energy with every word. Every breath that came out of him felt ragged, corrupted with anger and confusion. Despite all of this, his companion didn’t move an inch.

“If She cared she wouldn’t even let us Fall, if she cared for this planet then some people would’ve been dead for a long time. If She cared then some of the beings in Heaven should have fallen and I don’t even think She talks to anyone anymore!” He stared at the sky and raised his middle finger. “Is _that _how the ultimate force of good is supposed to be? She’d just let celestial beings fuck up this planet?”

“Heaven and Hell would fight and they wouldn’t care—Earth would be their battlefield and they won’t give a damn. They wouldn’t care about music, or art, or the trees, the skies, the mountains,” he growled the last words. “Food and _books. _They wouldn’t care about your bloody-fucking-_bookshop--!”_

“That’s enough, Crowley!”

He stopped and looked at the angel, who looked distraught; he was red in the face as well.

“You’re going—going too far,” Aziraphale stuttered, and his voice trembled. He had fear plaintively written on his face. “You’re going too far.”

“What is ‘too far’, Aziraphale?” He had raised his voice. He seldom did when he was with the angel. There was never a need; yet today, it seemed like there was because the angel didn’t _understand, _fuck, _Aziraphale, understand me, understand, because you’re the only one that I know that could understand me and now you’re not. Don’t let me advance too fast. Don’t let me go too fast. Aziraphale please._

“Is it when your favorite things are threatened?” He shook his head. “The bloody bookshop?”

“That’s not what it is!” Aziraphale answered back, and unbeknownst to the both of them, storm clouds gathered above. “For you to imply that it’s only the shop that I care for, how dare--!”

“Too far is murdering children!” He shouted, too angry to think, too worried for Satan’s plan. “Too far is making humans suffer for some petty rivalry! Too far is—“, his hands shook, “—going against your code! Your DNA or whatever-destined creation you are! Too far is questioning Her apparently!”

“There must have been a valid reason,” Aziraphale whispered. He started out a step; Crowley involuntarily stepped back. “—I don’t think there were accidental punishments… they got what they deserved—“

“Oh, _all_ of the Fallen got what they deserved?” He laughed outright, shaking his head. He had visions of his vaguely-sauntering-downwards Fall; he only asked questions, _damn it, _was that deserved? “Thankssss, Aziraphale. Some bloody fantastic _trust and faith _you have for the Almighty!”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it, Crowley!” He felt a hand place itself on his arm.

Crowley recoiled physically (like he was branded in that area) and in his angry haze, didn’t register his next words.

All he knew afterwards that Aziraphale’s expression went stone cold.

It was an expression that he had never been given before; yes, he had encountered furious gazes, wary glances and disappointed glimpses, but never did he ever get a look as chilly as the one that Aziraphale was giving right now.

_I’ve crossed a line again, _he thought as he tried to remember—tried to backtrack what he had said. _I crossed a line. I should remember! What did I say?_

“I am absolutely _repulsed…” _ Aziraphale murmured in an icy tone. As if trying to lessen the blow of his words, he deflected, closing his eyes. “You are many things, Crowley.”

The demon held his breath. Indeed, Crowley knew that he—formerly known as Crawly, Snake of Eden, original tempter, reason of the Original Sin-- was truly many things. He was always far ahead of his lot. He was inquisitive, curious, selfish and selfless at the same time. He was advanced in how he thought and how he planned, for some reason. He made lots of inventive bad deeds because he put a lot of imagination in them. He was special, not that he knew that, but he was special as an outlier.

Crowley’s mistake was that he expected Aziraphale—of what he detected was an outlier of Heaven himself—to surrender his faith (just as he had, many, many eons ago) and question the Almighty’s Ineffable Plan as well.

“I befriended you because you were worth knowing, Crowley.” The angel said in a steely voice; Crowley’s eyes widened. “I understood and tried to understand wherever you came from. I spend days to think who you were in heaven and maybe I could bring your mind to peace if I could.”

He raised his head and his eyes ignited in anger; his holiness aflame. “But if you are trying to make me question the Lord, you are going too far. I don’t know many things but I choose to _believe_ because I have the _illusion of choice here on Earth_ yet you try to squander that decision by wanting to force me to question Her. I may doubt Heaven and Hell but _never Her!”_

Now, Crowley recoiled as if struck. Aziraphale’s voice… it was unlike the warm and loving angel that Crowley knew and loved, and it was because of him, too. His stance was guarded, and hand poised as if to strike yet run away at the same time; as if he was in battle, and was put on a compromising position.

Aziraphale was always better with words, between the two of them. He was eloquent when in persuasion, but terribly brutal if heeded, though he was always quite gentle. Each word felt like the flaming sword’s return, searing into his heart.

“I—“, Crowley breathlessly said. _No, no. _He knew he had committed a mistake now. _I’m sorry, Angel, please, _“Azira—“

“_No!” _The angel’s voice reverberated on the streets, and he could feel raindrops patter on his skin. He hadn’t even noticed the gathering clouds, too transfixed and apologetic. Holy energy flooded his senses and he could feel it stretch beyond. “I have had enough, _demon!”_

Crowley’s eyes went wide; the rain was coming in a drizzle. “Angel! I’m sor—“

“Don’t ask for forgiveness if you _aren’t sincere!” _The angel yelled, amidst the harsh onslaught of the rain. His voice was clear above the thundering skies. “I’ve listened to you question the Lord for years and years on end and I’ve listened to you question the Plan for centuries! I’ve listened to your speculations, your grievances, and not once did I tell you off. Yet when you make me question my faith,” his eyes glowed, illuminating the surrounding area, “—when you dishonor Her name--!”

\---

The winds whipped around his ears, it felt like he was standing in the middle of a tornado.

_Angel, no, I’m sorry, _he pleaded in his mind; Crowley winced and closed his eyes. Fear leaked out from every pore in his body, his usual image of chill be damned. But he knew what the angel was going to do. He knew he was going to be struck.

He was one of the Fallen, and he did so because he had questioned the Almighty. It was not a pleasant experience, and was struck down by the decree of Heaven, and he did his best to fall quietly and calmly as best as he could.

Now he had asked too many questions and urged someone to go down with him; and it was his friend, sweet Aziraphale, who did nothing but humor him as he humored back. They had an Agreement; one goes too far and the other should be punished.

It was an appropriate price that both of them deemed fitting.

He waited for the sound or the feeling of probably the rain around him being blessed—or the feeling of his skin burning like acid—when nothing came.

He opened his eyes—and saw his friend’s retreating back, a few miles ahead.

“No,” he whispered, and he tried to move, but it felt like he was stuck in a spot. “No, no…”

He forced his body to move and pushed him to do so. Then he was walking—then sprinting, and running.

He ran through the cold rain, teeth chattering, and he wanted—wanted to reach the angel, who was just calmly walking away. Yet he could never catch up. Belatedly, he realized that his breathing was labored; he had forgotten how to breathe, even if he didn’t need to.

It was terribly human, he realized.

Their fight was terribly human too.

_Miracle, _he thought in desperation, as he slowed down. _He’s making a miracle for me to never catch up to him._

_He’s never done that to me._

He sat down under the rain, distraught, and held out his hands, gazing at them. Rubbing his palms over his eyes, he could almost make out Aziraphale’s figure despite the static that resulted from rubbing his eyes too hard. He could see the stone gaze full of fury that the angel had wielded as he yelled out.

His words echoed in Crowley’s mind—full of hurt, disbelief, and anger—and directed at _him._

“He called me demon…” He whispered, shaking, the gravity of his friend’s words sinking in.

He’s heard of the term on the other’s lips before, but it was always said in jest, in a fact-and-opinion matter, nonchalantly peppered in the conversation. But never as a dividing term. Never as something that sounded so much like a curse, as if he had blessed the word for Crowley to be hurt in return. He angrily curled his hands into fists. “_Stupid!”_

Aziraphale was different from anyone he had ever met because he was a gentle soul, or being. Extremely kind and compassionate, ready to make you tea if you needed. He never resorted to fights, except with things that he _deemed _necessary, which wasn’t often (and more of a protect-thee-from-thy-enemy kind of thing) and he never raised his voice (except when he was on a path of thwarting evil). He only wished for peace, he always did. Even if it was a bit far-fetched—such as, Crowley’s belief in the outcome of Armageddon—he trusted and had faith that it won’t deal damage to the humans and Earth as a whole.

He would always find a way to thwart the adversary with no need of violence; it was one of the traits Crowley admired about the angel. Of course he had his moments—where he’d delved deep into the matters _and _goad the enemy, silly angel—but he was the same as Crowley. Never wanting violence. Only wanting to save the Earth they both lived in.

He stood up and powered through his walk.

_I’m sorry, _he thought as he ran through the rain, not minding the fact that he was shivering, stupid bloody cold-blooded snake-body, and that his clothes were getting wet. He didn’t even register that he _was _getting wet because he knew, he _knew, _that after their silent treatment after Noah’s ark, forced separation after Aziraphale giving the holy water, and the slightest of absences that spanned too many years than comfortable… he couldn’t live like that.

He should question it more, he knew; question the fact how a demon and an angel became friends. How they somehow endured six thousand years or so without fighting like _this _and somehow Crowley did so when he was just seeking out answers from a friend.

_I only ever asked questions, _he thought as he rounded the curb and didn’t stop running. He splashed a puddle on someone’s shoe in the process, which earned him a curse back. Bad deed of the day, he counted, _whatever. It’s his choice to get angry at me, thanks._

_Aziraphale always chose to be the moral high ground and never get angry with you, _his traitorous mind whispered to him.

The angel always took his quirks in stride, reprimanding him if he went too far. They’d always have that dance, of blasphemy-and-heresy or holy-and-sacredness, and both would back down if they could detect that it was wrong. The difference now, was that in his stress, he didn’t listen to Aziraphale’s pleas to stop.

His knuckles went white as he gripped his hands into fists. _He finally called you a demon in the way you deserved._

_Shut up, _he angrily thought, getting annoyed at himself for leaving the Bentley on the other side of the park. Aziraphale and he usually walked around or towards the other end of the park after their meetings, as a sign of goodbye-but-not-yet. He cherished those moments.

He also hates himself right now because he shouldn’t be _thinking _about those now, _blasted thoughts._

Skidding on the bank, earning dirty looks from the other people walking under the rain, he raised his fist to bang on the door of his friend’s bookshop.

He paused, blinking. Then he put his fist down and rubbed his temples, feeling angrier than ever, but not to God or Hell nor Heaven. He was angry at himself, for doing dumping all of that towards Aziraphale, and rain be damned, he _should be punished, _just like how he fell.

If there was anything that he deserved, it was this.

He sat on the pavement and cursed himself, and his damned curiosity.

* * *

Part Two

Aziraphale, for all his bluster about being unsure if what he did was right or wrong, actually had strong convictions on matters. He sometimes faltered, yes, but that was in front of God Herself and Her orders—or when the matter of calling Crowley a _friend _in front of other people.

He knew consorting the enemy was frowned upon by Heaven, but really, this felt like _befriending _with the enemy. Words were crucial in Heaven, because unless they stated something as _this, _then it couldn’t be _that. _They weren’t good on metaphors. Subliminal messages, maybe, with all the visions that some prophets of the olden times would have (Isaiah had the most colorful visions, in Aziraphale’s opinion, but John was definitely quite acquainted with some of the complexities with heaven due to his friendship with Her Son) but never the other figures of speech.

It is where Aziraphale succeeds in this sense; he was a bit sneakier like that. Befriending is forbidden in the notions of Heaven’s rules for the angels; their number one rule was to _avoid consorting with the enemy. _Or, well, their first rule was ‘Be An Angel of God’ and sometimes, in Aziraphale’s quite honest opinion, was a bit nebulous, really.

God created angels as beings of love, yet with hands that can wield weapons of war or tools of creation. Aziraphale was the former, which surprised lots of angels in heaven, because he’d rather read than set fire onto something. He was a bit of a different angel, in that case, but he wasn’t really disobeying God’s Will, so he supposed that he _was _still following the first rule technically.

He wasn’t consorting with the enemy, with Crowley. Just a few word-changes and in his reports, he could detail how he was either _consorting with a newfound ally on Earth _or _familiarizing with the enemy. _Heaven never called him out because he could always thread the needle and defend his words with a well-placed obfuscation (or stutter, angels can’t lie) or misdirection. The Archangels Gabriel and Michael frequented him sometimes, Gabriel with his actual work and Michael with _consorting with the enemy._

But as he already had been called once before by his “newfound ally”, he was a bit of a bastard. That, he could admit. Michael had tried to corner him—emotionally, in this sense, or psychologically if it matters—asking him if _are you eager to Fall, Aziraphale? Being with a demon… it corrupts you._

_No, no, _he’d disagreed. _Not at all. He’s not able to corrupt me in any way, shape, or form._

_Are you sure? _Michael had asked. _Because Crawly… he’s a wily serpent. He unleashed the Original Sin._

He had desperately wanted to answer ‘yes, yes I know, I was there? And his name is Crowley’ but he had only nodded. You didn’t really talk back at the Seven Archangels, lest you want to have a meeting with them. _Of course. I shall be cautious. Hopefully, it doesn’t alleviate to a fight… or, I mean, I hope he does not win against me._

_I hope that snake does not, because we would demote you and probably enact a punishment, Aziraphale, _the Archangel had threatened.

He’d been demoted before. He didn’t really fear for that nowadays; his title of Principality was a laughingstock up there in Heaven. He was an agent on Earth, a place that was ‘tarnished’ and not ‘up to heavenly standards’.

It was safe to say that the threat fell on deaf ears.

However, not fighting with his ‘counter’ agent—Crowley—was easy; squabbles were often between them, and petty banter was natural, especially after being with one another for six thousand years or so. The demon himself was—he wasn’t _gentle, _but he was a Fallen Angel, an angel once, and it was easy to see how he could’ve been friends with the wily serpent. The being tried to hide that he liked people and liked plants, but Aziraphale knew no matter what. Crowley was a very unique demon.

He was, however, very inquisitive, someone who asks too many questions but fails to see if they are still ‘in the right place’. That was the reason of his Fall from grace, as he had mentioned in one of their conversations before.

Despite this, it seems like their penchant for always finding common ground to step on did not work today, and now resulted to a fight—or a shouting match if you will. It had somehow started from their usual conversation. Crowley had crossed a line, and Aziraphale was, in the lack of better terms, _livid._

He was an angel of God, and while Heaven might disapprove of his ways, he had never acted out of turn from God’s decree. Even if he had lied to the face of God, She had just forgiven him, saying ‘it was alright’. She never got angry. Hopefully She wasn’t angry at how he’d been a bit more indulgent on Earth, but never had She did something that was not justified for Her Plan, even if they were questionable.

It angered Aziraphale greatly that Crowley was pushing him to question his faith.

“I befriended you because you were worth knowing, Crowley.” He mustered in the strongest tone he could; he was so _upset. _“I understood and tried to understand wherever you came from. I spend days to think who you were in heaven and maybe I could bring your mind to peace if I could. But if you are trying to make me question the Lord, you are going too far. I don’t know many things but I choose to _believe_ because I have the _illusion of choice here on Earth_ yet you try to squander that decision by wanting to force me to question Her. I may doubt Heaven and Hell but _never Her!”_

_I’m so mad at you, Crowley, _he thought as he tried to vanquish the hot feeling that came when anger was involved. He was never great at being angry; his heart—metaphorical, physical—always felt disturbed and distressed. _We agreed that we should accept each other._

Crowley recoiled as he raised his voice; he looked terrified, and for a second, Aziraphale remembered that the demon could die by his hand; it was his role in the Holy War after all, as a defender, as a fighter. It doubled his hurt that Crowley thought that he’d smite him; he was so bloody _mad, _that Crowley kept pushing and pushing and _pushing _and it’s been _weeks now, _he was largely to blame.

_Weeks _of complaints from Crowley, and while that was alright since they always did complain about the silliest things, there was also that undertone of _Aziraphale_, _ask God ask why! Ask! Don’t just accept it as some ‘ineffable plan’!_

As if he wanted Aziraphale to Fall.

“I—Azira—“

“_No!” _He shouted, voice thundering with holy energy. “I have had enough, _demon!”_

Crowley tried to approach him, but the image of the demon wincing as he tried to placate the demon surfaced in his mind. The image of the demon’s angry, Hellfire-inflamed golden eyes staring into his and saying, “_You lied to God, why didn’t _you _fall, then? Isn’t that deserving of a fall?”_

“Angel! I’m sor—“

“Don’t ask for forgiveness if you _aren’t sincere!” _Thunder wracked the skies of London, and the rain poured heavily. The heavy raindrops thudded against his skin, and it had the effect of both quelling his anger but heightening his irritation. “I’ve listened to you question the Lord for years and years on end and I’ve listened to you question the Plan for centuries! I’ve listened to your speculations, your grievances, and not once did I tell you off. Yet when you make me question my faith—when you dishonor Her name--!”

He knew where he stood. He also knew where Crowley came from; the demon was quite different from his lot in a good way. They clicked even if they were on opposite sides. They made the Arrangement because they _worked._

The Arrangement was made so that balance would always be present, but it would still work for their companionship. Crowley performs temptation, Aziraphale performs a miracle, then Aziraphale performs a temptation, then Crowley performs a miracle. That was the primary rule; the second rule was that they lay their differences aside when they were working together.

Sure, they argued about Heaven and Hell’s decrees, like that time when Gabriel deemed that Aziraphale had to _record _his _daily_ conversations because ‘they wanted a live view of Earth and how you work’. Granted, Crowley had laughed at him for that, but simultaneously clapped when Aziraphale decided he would sent overly-detailed reports that either included no dialogue, too much dialogue, three sentences, or ten thousand pages for two days-worth of conversation.

No—they argued more about everyday things, like how walking around London was giving them trouble because of _all the bloody bikes, they keep hitting me, for fuck’s sake _or _the new cat across the street keeps meowing when I read, insert expletive._

Entertaining Crowley’s rants about God and the Ineffable—or the Great Plan—was a secondary thing, like how Crowley had silently accepted his role of being a nuisance in the bookshop so no one would buy anything. Never directed at him, nor his faith and belief.

It saddened him that somehow, Crowley had been hiding this doubt, this vulnerability, and masked it through drunken ramblings. That his friend had been asking for so many things and his Fall was still one big mystery to him, if he had just asked questions.

_Why didn’t you fall, then?_

Aziraphale stood by his belief that faith in the Lord stood in the end. He’s always trusted Her, never doubting Her Plan. He had faith in the world-- that it was innately good, terrifyingly neutral, and selectively bad. Free choice was important in humanity, and even if he was an angel, had used the freedom granted to him—the consciousness to do Good—to do the Right thing. He believed that it was good, and he had done it with the best intentions in mind. He never hurt people. He helped them.

No, he wasn’t mad that Crowley questioned God or Her decision to make him fall.

He was hurt that Crowley questioned his belief in trusting in his actions and in God’s Plan.

_\----_

He opened his door and stood in the middle of the library; he removed his soaked coat and stared at the droplets that disappeared into the fabric.

Mind a bit sober from his walk to his shop, he wrung his hands worriedly, staring at the thunderclouds that were visible by his window.

_Why… why did I shout at him? _He thought guiltily, turning around and opening the door. _I shouldn’t have shouted at him. Oh, I’ve messed up. I’ve messed up and oh dear, where is he?_

He peeked to see if Crowley had followed him. When he didn’t see anyone on the street, he closed his eyes, trying to feel for any hint of demonic energy.

At the back of his mind, he realized that his bookshop was quite a hotspot for demonic energy, but as he pushed those thoughts--he felt that Crowley was a kilometer away. Shame ate him, and he closed the door.

It disappointed him that he had acted that way—turning around and making miracles for the demon to not catch up to him, for the demon to be discouraged. _He was just curious and distraught, Aziraphale, yet you pushed him away. You hurt him. Don’t they say that words are sometimes the most hurtful than any physical blow?_

His hands trembled as he shook his head. He closed his eyes, berating himself. _Oh Aziraphale, he just needed answers._ Crowley, the ever inquisitive demon. The demon who asked why he had to do direct evil than indirect evil, which was ‘fun’ and ‘exciting’ and ‘creative’. . The fallen angel who asked too many questions._ Answers to questions you couldn’t give, but at least try to._

_I’m not the Lord, and I’m his…friend. Yet I pushed him away. _

_Oh, I messed up._

When running footsteps—slowing to a stop—approached his shop, he had an umbrella ready, and he steeled himself.

He waited till the door opened, but it didn’t come.

Crowley was most definitely waiting for him to open the door and let him in, then. Aziraphale frowned as he second-guessed opening the door; he was still quite mad at the demon for not abiding with their agreement.

But he always prided himself for being the higher ground, and while Crowley poked him for being such an uptight, moralistic angel’, he intended to do so. It was—it was angelic, to be morally good.

_Be strong, _he thought, opening the door. _And ask for forgiveness. Show compassion._

_Understand._

He swallowed heavily at the sight that greeted him.

A familiar figure on the steps, head tucked between their knees; all-clad in black garments, ginger hair flat against his shoulders. For a moment, Aziraphale was brought back to the Great Flood, when the demon had angrily stared at the rising tidal waves. Crowley had been sitting under the rain, shivering from the cold; Aziraphale had approached him back then, and urged him to _look away, Crowley, please, sometimes we just don’t know why She deems this as necessary. Come on, Crowley. Stop hurting yourself._

That wouldn’t change, even after all these years.

“Dear boy, are you just going to sit under the rain…?” He murmured, sheltering the demon from the cold sleet that hampered London’s skies. He had the urge hug the demon; he was too cold, and Aziraphale always ran a bit warm. “I don’t think it’s healthy for cold-blooded reptiles to be so still in these temperatures.”

Crowley didn’t move.

Aziraphale looked down and placed a hand on the demon’s shoulder; the gesture was met with no response. Alarm spiked in him; he turned around and bounded down the steps, careful to shield the both of them, and nudged Crowley.

“Oh dear,” he gasped as he saw the very pale look that Crowley was sporting; he had been under the cold for too long. _Aziraphale _waited for too long; he should have acted when he heard the demon arrive at his doorstep. He understood why this was happening and it tore his heart apart; whatever was on Crowley’s mind, it wasn’t directed to keep himself from the cold temperatures. He was deliberately taking on the cold, and probably amplifying it.

Aziraphale’s heart lurched as he took Crowley in his arms, and gently lifted him off the steps. _Oh, Crowley, please don’t think…_

He brought him inside and snapped his fingers to change Crowley’s clothes into clean, dry and crisp clothes. Worry niggled his mind as he set the other man on the backroom sofa; the demon hadn’t moved an inch even after his fuss.

“Crowley, oh my dear…” he whispered, pulling a blanket from his cabinet and laying it over him. He removed the demon’s glasses and set it on his desk so he wouldn’t accidentally break it. “Please warm up, please don’t reject the warmth…”

He stood up and angled the lamp on his desk towards Crowley, and then went to his kitchen to heat water. He fetched a heating pad—one of the many things he’d purchased for the demon whenever he’d complain about the cold weather and how it wasn’t good on his ‘stupid weird body’—and laid it on the resting man.

It took a few more minutes before Crowley would respond, though a bit languid and in a bit of a tired voice. “Ah…Where...?”

He was there in an instant. “Here, my boy.” Aziraphale murmured, setting down his cup of cocoa on the table and sitting down on the floor. He brushed Crowley’s locks out of his face, and felt a little bit elated when the man’s temperature had considerably lowered. “I was so worried.”

Crowley blinked and abruptly sat up, and Aziraphale could see the fear that encompassed him, the yellow in his eyes creeping through the whites. He took his surroundings in and stuttered as he looked downwards at him. “Aziraphale, I, why am I--!”

“Crowley, calm down,” he tried to show that he was fine that the being was on his sofa. “You were quite affected by the rain—“

“I shouldn’t be here, I should be out there--!” Crowley jerked his head towards the door. “Angel--!”

“Shh,” he gently shushed as he stood up. He tugged the blanket and heating pad near Crowley, and wrapped him with it.

He was silent for a few moments, before he sighed. “I’m sorry, Crowley.”

Crowley stared at him, with that vulnerable gaze. His heart ached even more. “I’m—Aziraphale—“

In a moment of impulsiveness, he brought the demon into a hug, embracing him against his chest. He could instantly feel his worry seep out, and he relaxed against the demon, and thought, _I don’t think I’ve ever hugged Crowley before._

“It’s okay,” he said as he straightened up.

Crowley tried to push him away, but Aziraphale held on. “I’m--- sorry—I shouldn’t have, Angel, I shouldn’t have…”

“I understand.” He murmured, feeling the demon tense. “I understand and forgive you, Crowley.”

“_Damn it.” _Crowley huffed. “You should be angrier at me.”

It felt uplifting to say those words finally, because he knew that Crowley would eventually find a way to doubt himself even further and hurt himself more. He was good at stewing too much on the situation, on the problem, to find a solution that usually required imagination. Sometimes, however, in times like these—his tendency to ruminate on the problem and solution—blinded him to the easier path, and that was when Aziraphale came through in Agreements.

Just like when he had suggested that opening the Suez Canal would be much easier for trading but it would also might bring policy problems for their bad deed/good deed of the day, he knew that shutting down the anxiety building in his friend as fast as he could would be the best course of action.

Aziraphale always understood how Crowley thought, especially now, after he had shown his fears. Aziraphale didn’t need the demon to apologize. On the other hand, Crowley always understood how Aziraphale functioned and behaved most of the time. The tentative circling of arms around his waist proved that. His head was buried on Aziraphale’s stomach, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“I should have understood you better, Crowley.” He whispered, closing his eyes. “I know that you’re scared. I know that you’ve just gone from Hell. I don’t know what they told you but I know now that you’re distraught, and I hope that you forgive me for blowing up like that.”

Crowley mumbled something before turning his head. “I shouldn’t have accused you. We had an agreement on things we shouldn’t touch but I did… I crossed the line and I hurt you, Angel.” A beat, before he stilled again. “I hope you don’t hate me… please.”

“Never.” Aziraphale promised with resolution. He was fussy, prissy, well-organized, a bit of a bastard and soft, but he wasn’t one for anger and hate. “I could never hate you, my dear. It would take more for me to hate you, and I don’t think I’m even capable of hate.”

“Because you’re an angel?” Crowley murmured, snorting.

“Because I’m an angel.” He smiled, breaking away from the embrace. Crowley looked up to him. “And well, mistakes happen to demons too, I guess.”

“Oh they do,” Crowley whispered, a smile threatening to break out from his face. Aziraphale always loved that look on him. “—just a bit with more style. Granted, I think I went…over the top, today.”

“Quite so.” Aziraphale said with a smile. “Our argument was a bit dramatic.”

He didn’t mention that the storm clouds had probably been him, or that for all intents and purposes, the words they have unleashed to each other had been scathing, biting remarks. They didn’t mention Crowley’s confession of vulnerability, or Aziraphale’s display of strength. They didn’t mention how their friendship—or companionship—had almost been on the brink of breaking, but it was solved by a simple hug. They didn’t mention how Crowley was so quick to ask for forgiveness despite being a demon and how Aziraphale was so quick to forgive despite them not being ‘friends’.

But they both knew what the truth was.

They always knew, somehow. 

* * *

Epilogue

It had hurt for both the demon and the angel—those words of defiance and anger and plea.

_You were an angel once. _

_How can someone as clever as you be so stupid? _

_We’re not friends—I’m an angel, you’re a demon. _

_When I’m off to the stars, I won’t even think about you._

They had hurt each other, and somehow that was always their thing, for them to bring out a miracle one last time, and patch their friendship. But both knew they didn’t lose any ounce of their relationship. It didn’t crash. It didn’t dissolve. It went through a lot, but it persevered. It was intriguing, to an outsider. It was incomprehensible.

“Still can’t believe that we’re alive.” Crowley murmured as he terrorized a ladybug on a blade of grass. He was sprawled on the duvet that Aziraphale had brought for their picnic, content and languid. “I didn’t think it would work.”

Aziraphale hummed, taking into delight that his friend was voicing out loud his worries than keeping it to himself. “That is very true.”

“I mean! How did they miss it? How did we survive?” Crowley rolled over and patted the angel’s thigh. “I don’t understand. We’re _idiots _who lost the Antichrist. How could Heaven _and _Hell not suspect a thing?”

Aziraphale shrugged and finished the sandwich he was making, which was a terrific homemade burger-lettuce-jam concoction. Crowley’s eyebrows twitched when his friend only dabbed more jam onto the burger.

“Oi, I’m having an existential crisis here, Angel, and you’re just sitting there.” He groaned, covering his eyes with the back of his hand. “Give me some answers or I’ll wreck your burger.”

“You wouldn’t like my answer, dear boy.” Aziraphale side-glanced him, biting into his food. “And please, don’t. It’d be such a waste.”

“Oh, Go—Sa—Somebody, don’t tell me, you’re going to say it’s ineffable.” Crowley groused. “I don’t want to hear that word again!”

“Then how can I answer your questions, dear?” Aziraphale gave him a pleased grin. “_I _myself don’t know the answers to your questions, of how we survived or if how each side do not suspect a thing, but for now, it’s an ineffable consequence.” He shrugged as he tugged the demon to a sitting position. “Here, try this. I don’t know how flavors like these could work, but it’s _amazing!”_

Crowley eyed him with an amused tilt in his lips before biting the burger. He lamented on the other’s words.

He directed his gaze to Aziraphale’s blue irises, marveling at many things, and how somehow. Somehow, the questions in his mind quieted for the moment, in their small bubble of peace.

“I suppose it did work out quite nicely despite everything.” He laid his head on Aziraphale’s legs. “Demon. Angel. Own side.”

Aziraphale smiled softly, radiating warmth and happiness.

“Ineffable, that is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed it! I can be found on Tumblr (artist-in-space), Twitter (Artist_in_Space) and such if y'all want to talk about stuff :D


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